The Last Page
by jasperose
Summary: she shouldn't have come back.  s4, breyton angst. psycho!derek alternative.


_s4, psycho!derek aftermath if it wasn't so peachy. again second-person. i can't get over it._

_the title is a song by Emily Haines off her solo album Knives Don't Have Your Back._

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><p><strong>The Last Page.<strong>

You didn't mean it. You swear you didn't. You said it because you were angry and you were hurt and you wanted her to know how much she meant to you. You didn't mean it, though. You could never mean that. You could never.

She lies, still and bruised, so small and broken. Her chest rises and falls softly, following the rhythm of the respirator as it pushes air in and out of her tired lungs. It fills the room with a mechanical noise, like robot breathing. You shut your eyes tightly and try to block out the proof, the evidence of your betrayal, but it doesn't work.

She never should've come back. Not for you, not after what you said and what you did. She never should've come back, but she did. And now look at her, lying helpless and sleeping on a hospital bed. Her skin is a myriad of purples and reds, her eyes closed and weeping. You wonder what she cries for. Certainly not for you. Maybe for herself, maybe for the pain and the hurt you've caused, maybe for her missing parents, maybe for lost love. Certainly not for you.

You don't like to see her cry. It tugs at something deep within you— something primordial, something raw. It tugs and pulls and scratches at your insides. You can feel the blood seeping into your throat and lungs, filling your mouth with regret. You hate to see her cry.

Doctors and nurses were rushing and shouting and pressing and stitching earlier. They were racing to save her. They're not sure if it worked, yet. You hope with all your broken heart it worked. It's different in here, the feeling. It feels heavy and bloody and hot. It feels stifling and thick and sad. It feels like too much to bear, and she's still on the bed. The doctors and nurses and their shouted commands are gone. There's nothing more they can do. That scares you.

Fear is a funny thing, you find. It drives some people, inhibits others. You're not sure which kind you are yet. Right now, you're terrified and stationary. Your feet won't pick up off the floor and your eyes won't tear from her face. But before, before you were racing and fighting and screaming and crying. You were a tornado you were unstoppable the only thing on your mind was her. Maybe you're a strange mixture of the two. Maybe you're an anomaly. Maybe you're broken.

Actually, you know you're broken. You have been for ten years. You tried many different ways to hold it together. Sellotape and staples and paper-mache. Alcohol and cocaine and blasting music. None of that worked, none of that held you up and together like you wanted. You were still noticeably broken.

But she knew what would work. She knew, with her dimples and her sparkling eyes and her crooked smile. She had the glue and the staples and the right kind of tape. And she held you together long after you fell apart yourself. What a wondrous feeling it was, finally being fixed.

She's quite broken. It's a tragedy, you know, and you have no idea how to fix it. She had all the glue and staples and tape. She had the plaster and the nails and the hammer. You're empty-handed.

You feel someone behind you. It's not her, so you're wholly uninterested. But they place a large hand on your shoulder and lean down to whisper to you. You flinch and turn and startle, your eyes wide and scared. He steps back with his hands raised in surrender. There are apologies on his lips. You don't want to catch them. You're tired of them.

He wants to know how she is. He's a fool and a hopeless romantic if he thinks she looks anything less than horribly sad. A blind man could tell she's not okay. But then again, he's always been blind when it comes to her. You know it, and you find that right now, in this situation bleeding regret, it doesn't tear at you like it used to. Maybe you're growing as a person. Maybe you're just too torn to shreds to feel anything different.

You don't answer his stupid question, instead tearing your eyes from his crashing waves and look back at her. She's always been a small girl, but she's never appeared to be that way. She's always seemed larger than life. Like a mountain in the middle of a field. Like a castle on a suburban street.

He comes up behind you and rests his shaking hands on your hips. He steadies himself on you, and you realise this isn't the first time he's done this. You feel lips against your skin and you try to hold back a sob. Now is not the time now is not the place can't you see she's broken can't you see she's sleeping? but he feels helpless and he can't feel that when it comes to her. So he tries to help you. The tragic transference of Lucas Scott.

You push him off and cross your arms, fortifying. You tell him to stop and his face crumples. He doesn't know what to do. You scoff, a harsh, guttural scraping of the throat, and roll your eyes. He should've saved her, he should've saved her like he's always saving you. Even when you don't want to be saved, he's there. When she desperately needs it, she's alone. Your stomach knots and your throat is impossibly tight you think you might be choking. Why didn't he save her?

He cries, a thousand diamonds sparkling against his skin. He cries and he clutches and he splits. He doesn't know why he can never be there to save her. Maybe it's a flaw in his make up. Maybe he's afraid. Maybe she's just not as lucky as you seem to be. Maybe he doesn't know how.

You wish you could've saved her. Just once, you wish you could've. You never did before, when she was drowning in loneliness and testosterone and vodka. You didn't know she wanted saving. How hopeful of you, that your constant saviour would be strong enough to hold two people together all on her own. How selfish. You wish you could've saved her.

"My mom's dead. And as far as I'm concerned, so are you."

But you didn't save her. In fact (in horrible reality), you broke her. You drove her to this, this dangerous rescue mission full of slapping hands and glinting wolfgrins and blood, gushing streaming blood. You did this. What a horrible thing to have created.

Hopefully it's just a dream. Or a nightmare. Or a psychotic episode. Anything would be better than this crimson screaming reality, you think. You want out of it. You want to shut your eyes and be back in your front yard, yelling and fighting and throwing memorabilia. You want to bite your tongue and swallow your lies and instead tell her "I miss you every day you're the best part of me." Maybe then, all of this would go away.

He's sitting in a chair with his head in his hands. He looks terribly sad, you notice. Diamonds are dripping from his chin, staining his trousers. You wonder what he sees, what plays across his eyelids as each tear falls. Maybe it's her then, smiling and laughing and kissing. Maybe it's her now, bleeding and tragic and quiet. You're not sure which would be worse to see.

All you can see are her terrified eyes as the knife glints and the wolfgrin grows. Teeth peek out from behind stretched lips. Skin shines white over clenched knuckles. Hands painted red, throats carved and tongues coated. It's all you can see.

The robot breathing is steady, but you're worried. You're worried it'll stop. He's worried he'll never be able to save her like he promised. The room is thick with anxiety. You wonder if she can feel it in her unfeeling state.

No change. It's been days and days of waiting, and there's no change. Where's the vibrant, fiery girl that never took no for an answer? Where's your best friend with her dimples and her charm? You haven't seen her in days and days and there's still no change.

The doctors' shoulders are getting heavier and heavier every time you speak with them. Their eyes are growing wearier and their mouths turn down sharply, parenthesis around the words you're terrified to hear. It's been days and days. It's been forever.

The robot breathing remains the same. It's a strange and perverse comfort, but it's a comfort nonetheless.

He cries, still. Jewels tumble from his eyes and he tries to think of ways to save her. A hopeless Clarke Kent with diamond tears. Such a powerless sight to see.

Meaningless words of consolation and support beat down on your shoulders. You don't want their words or their pitying eyes; you want her smile, you want her laugh. Everyone is disappointed.

Days and days, weeks and weeks, it's been so long. The scars have faded on your skin. The blood washed away, down the drain in a swirl. You can barely tell you ever even endured such a trying event. But she remains still and mechanical. The steady robot breathing is loosing its comforting allure.

It's raining the day the robot breathing shuts off. You watch as her chest rises once and stops. Tears leak from beneath her eyelids and you know now what she's crying for. You want to wipe them away but your hands are shaking too badly. You can barely hold yourself up, your knees knock together and your stomach clenches painfully and suddenly you're on the ground. Raw and ancient sobs rip up your throat, pulling your stomach into your mouth. You can feel your heart fall to pieces inside your chest, shatter and break until it fills your chest with shards of a broken girl. It fills your lungs and you're choking.

The doctors, with their sloping shoulders and bracketed mouths, look to you sadly. They're sorry, you know, but it doesn't help.

You remain on the floor, breaking your ribs with the force of your sobs. You don't think anyone in the history of the world has ever felt this heartbreak.

You didn't mean it. You swear you didn't. You said it because you were angry and you were hurt and you wanted her to know how much she meant to you. You didn't mean it, though. You could never mean that. You could never.

But you find it doesn't matter anymore. You said it, and it happened, and there's nothing you can do to take it all back anymore. What a horrible feeling, filling your stomach with acidic regret, clenching your heart in between its iron fingers until it breaks and gushes and fills your lungs. Maybe you'll drown like this. You think you already have.

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><p><em>i know it's not the happiest story in the world. but hey, angst is a blast.<em>

_let me know what you thought, teamsies._

_loooooove Jasper_


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